


everything i have (i'll keep you safe)

by astralscrivener



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Black Paladin Lance (Voltron), Blood and Injury, Established Keith/Lance (Voltron), I Don't Know When It Diverges, M/M, Maybe In S3, Red Paladin Keith (Voltron), based on a tweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-19 19:22:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17607413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astralscrivener/pseuds/astralscrivener
Summary: They can’t—won’t, won’t ever, if Keith has anything to say about it—take the team leader. They’ve already done it once, and Keith’s heart twists, because he couldn’t stop it then. But he can stop it now. He’s lost a father to flame, lost a brother to war; he won’t lose a lover to both.or, the aftermath of battle.





	everything i have (i'll keep you safe)

**Author's Note:**

> i should be sleeping rn but i'm kinda hoping my university cancels classes for dangerously low temperatures but we'll see
> 
> anyway i did a [short twitter thread](https://twitter.com/astralscrivener/status/1090432033673887745) and that's where this came from, if i were to set this in canon it would be an alternate version where the clone never came back in s3 and the real shiro's...out there somewhere, don't know not relevant for this
> 
> title taken from the lyrics for both angel with a shotgun by the cab and i'll keep you safe by sleeping at last
> 
> **trigger warnings for graphic descriptions of injury and violence, blood, etc**

                He can’t breathe.

                The windows and walls of Red’s cockpit lean in, tower over him, encroach on his space and eat away at his air as violently trembling hands release the levers at his sides. He tears out of his chair onto weak legs, numb legs that almost give out and make him stumble forward into the dash, hands catching at the controls, but Red knows better. Red stays in his hangar and lowers his jaw, lowers the gangway, while Keith staggers out.

                Despite their lack of feeling, Keith’s legs know where to go, carry him out of the hangar bay and into the halls of the ship before his brain can give them their destination. Distantly, he’s aware of the other voices over the comms, breathless, congratulatory on a narrow—narrow—narrow victory—narrow—his mind snags—

                Hot fire, soldiers persisting anyway, closing in—

                Phantom hands around his throat—

                Blood not fully dried— _sticky,_  so fucking sticky, matting his bangs—

                Stinging— _fuck, fuck, fuck_ —a new day not fully dawned, blazing sun not quite scorching him yet, but  _arriving, getting there_ —

                It spreads from his lower back and down to the backs of his legs, legs that keep pumping underneath him, legs that don’t stop and send him careening into the other body barreling down the hallway. Arms fly around him, hold him as he abandons his helmet, tossing it aside, ignoring as it rolls to a halt somewhere down the hall.

                The other body shakes just as horribly as he does.

                Keith’s throat closes as his face settles into the slope of Lance’s neck, and their legs give out and send them crashing to their knees, barely supporting each other. His eyes sting just as badly as his back does and he squeezes them, feels the wetness make its way down his face as Lance suddenly draws back, fingers featherlight, framing his jaw, pushing his bangs back without the slightest wince.

                He should wince, should give any indication of disgust with the bruising on Keith’s jaw, the handprint that likely circles his neck underneath the black of his jumpsuit, the blood on his cheeks and in his hair and underneath his nose and in his split lip.

                “Keith,” he breathes out instead, as his shoulders sag with relief, eyes glassy as the dams burst. He chokes on something halfway between a laugh and a sob while Keith studies Lance’s face, unable to get a word out.

                A cut slices deep into Lance’s forehead, likely very hastily patched in Black’s cockpit, judging by the shoddy bandages tied at the back of his head. Keith traces a thumb over it and finally,  _finally_ draws a grimace out of Lance, and the grateful smile on his face dissolves. He pulls Keith back in again, tighter than before, and Keith returns his crushing grip, ignoring the pain searing across his backside.

                “I’m here,” he finally croaks out. “I’m okay. We’re okay.”

                Lance’s ensuing sob wracks his body, and even through their dented and cracked armor, their scorched and melted armor, Keith feels every heave, every inhale and exhale as Lance’s arms tighten about him until Keith’s wheezing, joining Lance in his hysterical crying.

                The image of the soldiers around them plague him, the  _blood—so much blood on my hands—so many bodies—_

_Us or them—_

Keith drew a line, very early on in this war, over what he would and wouldn’t do in battle, tactics he’d use and tactics deemed too harsh, too volatile and violent to be anything other than locked away, because he couldn’t be ruthless. He couldn’t be  _like them._

                He has one exception to this line, one person who can shove him over the edge and then reel him back in before he’s too far gone, and he holds his exception in his arms and bleeds on him, stains him with his tears, lingers too long on the knowledge that he almost  _lost this_ , and there’s no guarantee it won’t happen again.

                He’s hyperventilating before he knows it, and even through his own anguish, Lance senses it. Presses a hand flat against Keith’s back— _holy fuck my back’s on fire_ —molds it to the curve of Keith’s spine so Keith can feel every bit of him, even through the jumpsuit, sniffles and tries to even out his own breathing as a guide.

                “C’mon, Samurai,” Lance murmurs in a wobbling voice, swallowing down another sob. “We’re alive, see?”

                 _We almost weren’t._

                Loss—it’s a hollow feeling inside of him that never leaves anything but darkness and rage to bleed into that gap, a feeling experienced too many times; he doesn’t know what he would have done had he come back and Lance hadn’t.

                 _It would have cleaved you from the inside out._

                If Lance went down, Keith would have gone down, too. The Red Paladin would have died on the battlefield and left a hollow shell walking in his wake, a barely-animated corpse shambling through the rest of his days, because there’s no Keith without Lance, not one without the other.

                 _“Lance and Keith, neck and neck.”_

                A line for their rivalry, maybe, turned teasing over years fighting side-by-side, from teenagers to young men inexperienced still, compared to their allies who’ve sat through decades, some  _centuries_  of non-stop fighting. Many of them are used to calls too close for comfort, used to seeing a comrade—more than a comrade— _soulmate,_  and Keith’s chest aches—on the brink of death.

                He’ll never be used to it.

                Half the time, survival doesn’t feel  _real_ , and Keith’s fingers dig into Lance’s back as he holds on because he needs this, needs to remember that this  _is real,_  that Lance is here and for now, he’s not going anywhere. For now, he’ll be with Keith.

                He should let go—should be getting down to a pod before he absolutely wrecks his body—but he can’t. Doesn’t. And Lance doesn’t force him.

                “We’re okay,” Lance whispers in a cracking voice, repetition like a broken record as he cards fingers through Keith’s hair in soothing strokes. Keith’s mind hisses the unspoken  _for now for now for now for now_ and conjures up images of Lance, collapsed and unmoving and surrounded by soldiers taking turns toying with his body.

                The heat in Keith’s back builds up, pools in his stomach like liquid fire and then surges throughout the rest of him.

                They can’t— _won’t, won’t ever_ , if Keith has anything to say about it—take the team leader. They’ve already done it once, and Keith’s heart twists, because he couldn’t stop it then. But he can stop it now. He’s lost a father to flame, lost a brother to war; he won’t lose a lover to both.

                “We’re okay,” Keith finally chokes out, back to Lance, and he himself is incinerated, pain momentarily whiting out his senses.

                “Keith, hey, hey, Samurai—”

                “Sharpshooter…”

                Shifting—bodies are shifting, and another cry escapes Keith as Lance separates from him, only momentarily. Then he’s back with an arm behind his knees and another around his back. Keith’s arms latch around Lance’s neck almost automatically.

                “I’m taking you to the pods,” Lance says, and his voice catches, wobbles again, “but you’re gonna be okay. We’re okay.”

                Keith believes him—wholeheartedly believes every word out of Lance’s mouth, because it’s Lance, and he’s generally right. Keith listens as Lance babbles on and on about the mission’s successes, tries to draw Keith’s mind away from the explosion and the soldiers, and it works. Keith drifts off to the sound of his voice, carried on the winds of his words.

                And when he wakes up, he wakes up tumbling into Lance’s arms. Still there. Solid. Steady.

                He must’ve stayed in a pod, too, because the cut on his head, when Keith takes in the sight of it, is closed, scarred over with angry red ridges. His other injuries, too, have faded—still present, not gone, never gone, constant reminders of everything they’ve been through and everything yet to come.

                But Lance has him. He’s got Lance. And as long as they’ve got each other, they’ll be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> i should. shower and sleep
> 
> yeet


End file.
